


assassins are from serkonos

by cantaloupe



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, i could just elaborate on childhood headcanons for days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantaloupe/pseuds/cantaloupe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>back when he was fifteen, daud taught corvo the sword in a sunlit alley near the marketplace. </p><p>based off a headcanons <a href="http://kawazuya.tumblr.com/post/121878666703/god-i-sure-love-the-world-of-dishonored">post</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	assassins are from serkonos

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](http://kawazuya.tumblr.com/post/125447505958/assassins-are-from-serkonos). beta'd by [this person](http://thequeenofeels.tumblr.com/)
> 
> daud's mom is the pirate captain
> 
> daud's also a little ooc but it's okay i mean this is before shit _really_ happens to him, so he's a little less gritty than his later years

They’re stopping for repairs, his mother says, but Daud knows better than that. He also knows better than to question her—at fifteen, he's built up enough discipline to not breach her privacy. She was the one who taught him how to fight after all, and she wasn’t the type of woman to lose to _anyone,_ much less her own son.

The least Daud needed was a tongue-lashing upon setting into port. Months of bashing through turbulent waters and being whipped by ocean spray made him nauseous of the open sea. Seeing buildings crest in the distance washes a small wave of relief over him, and it only swells as the silhouettes crawl nearer. He can pick out the windows in the facades now, tiny squares of glass set into charcoal frames.

The ship docks at Karnaca, waves coaxing the vessel into port. Crewmates bustle past him and kickstart their duties, voices sway in volume and occasionally breaking into thunderous shouts. Daud wets his lips, tastes the salt in the air, and sneaks a few glances for possible witnesses of his departure. He finds none; he moves to disembark the ship silently. Daud drifts towards the edges of the deck, slips his body into the shadows of the tumult and glides nearer to the exit. Closer now, he makes a break down the ramp to the dock, soles thumping against damp wood. Seagulls bark as he continues to sprint through the port, water and whale sewage splashing against his drenched boots.

If he were more responsible, he’d be helping the crew instead of sprinting off to the city. Barrels of salt and supplies don’t interest him, however, and his mother doesn’t seem to care when he vanishes off the map, just as long as he doesn’t die. He’s going to land a temporary job in this city— _like in the last_ —and make a small living for himself. As for returning, he’ll come back when the vessel’s ready, which is usually a few weeks post-arrival.

The Serkonan sun is oppressive, beats down upon the worn docks and as Daud runs by, he finds that it highlights the putrid reek of fish carrion and waste.

It’s familiar.

* * *

He finds work as a stagehand for the local theater, but his particular skillset allows him to fly through the ranks and land himself as an understudy. He’s too old to play a female anymore— _he had, before, in a different town and a different time_ —but he makes for a good villain now. When that visage becomes exhausted, he takes up a prince instead. The crown never comfortably sits on his head and often favors the right.

His latest roles frequently press for sword tricks and he generally obliges, but it’s a stripped, bastardized version of his mother’s work. His bilge is nonetheless praised for its realism and he offers the usual half-hearted smirk in return for flattery. The blunt in his hand is heftier than what he’s used to, the grip’s binding still taut under his skin.

His own cutlass is so worn that its wrapping has an imprint of his hand.

He remembers how he would pass the time during uninteresting days on deck, feet sweeping across wood as he avoided a blow and charged in for his own. He’d clash against any who challenged— _sweat dripping, metal burning_ —and honed his skill until he found himself recurrently triumphant. The grip bit him so much that he developed a full layer of callouses, though that didn’t come without its fair share of bleeding beforehand.

The callouses have no use in theatre, but occasionally he’ll see an actor or two who can’t handle a sword.

* * *

Daud usually spends his lunches drifting through the marketplace, the midday sun beaming off multicolored awnings and blazing against the nape of his neck. Produce glistens in the shade, skewers and kabobs sizzle and pop on greasy stovetops. Normally, he would honestly buy his food, but he’s been short on cash lately. It wouldn’t hurt to put his skills to use. Pirates stereotypically steal and plunder anyway, though the only stealing his mother’s crew’s done was from Serkonan naval ships. It’s how she recruited most of her boys, delinquent sailors who were tired of bare-bone wages and the oppressive naval code.

Daud extends his hand in preparation to swipe a bread loaf. He stops taut; a shiver jumps up his spine, his nerves shot by ice. Eyes narrowing, he whips around, hand fisting the knife sitting on his hip.

There’s a scraggy-looking kid leaning towards him cautiously, arm poised in the air and hand near his pocket. Near his money. Daud cocks an eyebrow and swats the offending hand away. “Nice try.” He looks the kid over once and picks out the details; he's a boy, as far as he can tell.

Daud notices him flinch violently—notes how his eyebrows raise and how his eyes twitch wider, the rest of his body stiff. A pause ensues.

He's blinking considerably now, trashing the surprise on his bandaged-patched face and slowly draws himself up to full height. Glowering up at Daud, his lips are drawn tight, black eyebrows low over dark, narrowed eyes. Daud's eyebrow quirks higher—is he offended somehow?

He doesn't have enough time to ask. He catches him scampering away, sloppy ponytail bouncing against his shoulders as he bobs and weaves through the shifting crowd.

Daud blinks, sighs, then snatches a loaf.

* * *

He consistently pursues Daud every day following that. Daud can discern him from the rest of the throng now, a kid with a nasty scowl and a sum of bandages hanging off his tan face. Mostly, he tries for his money; the remaining times it's his food. He's starting to get irritated—can't even enjoy his lunch. He considers delivering a punch to firmly establish his distaste. A few days prior, Daud even presented his bread as a gesture of peace; he jammed it into his mouth and scurried off, only to return back to stalking him next day. What does he _want?_   The satisfaction of besting him? Outsider's eyes, how _inane._

It's a peculiar feeling when he doesn't show up today. Daud's not sure what's missing until he recalls a familiar head of scruffy hair.  _'Finally.'_ He strolls out the market and starts back towards the theater, savoring today's purchases at his leisure.

A grimace upsets his features as slander from a nearby alley robs the calm. “Your mom an invalid, _Crow?_ What's she doin' inside all day?” a boy cackles, “Worshipping the Outsider?”

Normally, Daud would make it _his_ business to not be in _other people's_ business, but he gives the alley a passing glance. There's the kid. The one that's been annoying him for the past week. Daud stops, slips behind a wall and covertly views the incident from behind cover. He's flanked in a circle by three other boys, the Serkonan sun blazing down over his face, expression dark and thunderous.

“Must be why you can't talk, _Crow!_   Witchcraft's got your tongue!” His knuckles are bleached white, fingernails digging into beaten palms.

“Your dad's 'prolly dead 'cause of her too, right?” Violent shaking racks his lean frame, shoulders tense and arms shudder.

“Yea, how _are_ you still alive, Crow? Surprised your mom hasn't killed _you_ yet!”

He snarls. Fists roar through the air and slam into contact.

 _'He'll be needing more bandages after this.'_   Daud muses.

* * *

“Your name?” Daud seizes him by the wrist, interrupting his usual escape.

"..." Blank staring from over the shoulder.

“Didn't think you were a talker anyway. Brat it is.”

That earns him a glare. Daud's unfazed. “I'm teaching you how to swordfight, since thievery is going to get you nowhere with me. Coming?”

A pause. Then, a nod.

They head to an alley.

* * *

_'He learns quick.'_

Metal screams, steel sings. Sweat flies off hair and drips down sweltering skin. Daud's attention is trained on him, holds even as he bashes his guard, locks into him, and presses.

He's teaching him the swordfighting he grew up with; the nobles play with their own version, tamed for sport. Theirs is a sort of chicken fight in which swords are more beak than blade; they demurely peck at each other, keeping themselves at a mindful distance. Daud knows biting steel, burning skin. Steps are taken forward, never backward and swords don't dance, they roar. _'The best defense is a great offense,'_   his mother said, _'there's no time to block—he'll already be at your throat by then.'_

 _'She's right.'_   There's a scorching ferocity behind his attacks that Daud, despite his experience, struggles with. The flash of metal glints in his eyes, flares vividly with each strike of the blunt.

* * *

Sometimes, they share bread after matches. Daud's usually the one to proffer it, but there are days when the brat surprises him. They go up to the rooftops and dangle their legs over the sun-baked ledge, bask in the silence of the late day. Except not so silent, because Daud always hears him scarfing down food like a street hound.

“Slow down, you'll choke.” He doesn't and chokes anyway. Daud sighs and helps him out for the second time that week. "I don't know why you do this to yourself."

He stares at him, then goes right back to shoving his mouth with food. Daud exhales and sits back, tilts his face towards the sky, then slips his eyes closed.

* * *

He's giving him a look, Daud thinks, a look that says _'come on, old man'_. This is as he catches the kid popping open the snaps of coin pouches and pilfering them as easily as flicking his wrist. The marketplace is stuffed with people today—though, it usually is.

He'll humor him. Daud slips towards a couple and loots from the boyfriend, coins gliding cold against his fingers. He shoves them into his pocket and scouts the brat out.

_'Keep up.'_

Really? Challenging _him_ , of all people.

Daud sweeps through the crowd, shoving his hands in pockets that aren't his. No one's the wiser; he's gone before they notice the lightness of their own purses. It's stupid—these people haven't done anything to him and yet he's robbing them because of a _challenge_ of all things. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. It's the ridiculousness itself that compels a smirk to grace his lips.

Up ahead he spots the brat snickering, sneaking a few mischievous glances back at him. Daud snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. Never did he imagine himself taking part in a marketplace heist. Uneasy murmurs of realization grow behind him; people are checking their pockets, opening their pouches only to finger dust. Daud glances left, right, then tears from the crowd, stepping into a leisurely stroll away from the throng.

The sun crests high when they rendezvous in the usual alley, pockets laden with coin. It's apparent who won, and even though Daud can't see a smile, his satisfaction is telling by the way his chest swells proudly, arms akimbo at his hips. There's a gleam in his eye that Daud catches—it's refreshing, considering the usual scowl.

 _'Maybe I'll get a knife for him,'_ he considers, _'second thought, maybe not.'_

* * *

There are days when he doesn't come. Daud spends those days winding through the streets of Karnaca, picking out bits of hearsay from the locals. Most times it's idle gossip, but there are occasions where he catches wind of his mother. She's doing well for herself, as far as he knows. Of course, that's if he considers winning bar fights as doing “well”.

“Crow's mom off'd herself yet?” This is new.

“Nah. Don't know why—old hag can't even take care of her own brat. She's a goddamn burden.”

“Wish she'd kill herself already. I bet Crow's over there taking care of her sorry ass.”

Daud pauses.

* * *

“Come here.” Daud points at the ground in front of him, setting his blunt to the side. A moment's hesitation, then the kid scampers up to him. “You did these yourself?” With a hand, he gestures to the peeling bandages.

A nod.

“Thought so.” Daud shoves his hand in his pocket and feels around. He finds a couple of patches from a few years back, when he was still a brat himself. “Stay still.”

The bandages are carelessly ripped off his face one by one. He's wincing, crinkling the bridge of his nose in pain. Daud finds some irony in it—he's never seen him wince before, even when they're sparring. _'Outsider's eyes, how many cuts are there?'_   Most of them are scabbing now, so they're fine to leave alone. As for the ones that aren't, he pats a new bandage onto them.

“Should learn how to change your bandages, brat.”

The usual glare.

* * *

He's gone for longer this time. Daud doesn't think about it much. The afternoons are quiet—he isn't sure the silence is really welcomed.

* * *

When he returns there's a lag in his sword that Daud, for a change, can effortlessly deflect. His swings are carelessly digging marks into ground and there's a sloppy drag to his back leg that's contributing to his sluggish form. They're about five minutes in when Daud sighs and puts up a hand, ending the session.

“This isn't working. Something's up with you. I'm not sure what it is, but it's—” He stops, lowering his arm.

He's quivering, face towards the ground, bangs falling down in a curtain over his eyes. His shuddering shoulders sometimes jerk up, and with each lurch he gasps, sharp and rasping. The hand around his sword is shivering, loose, and eventually the blunt slips away, clanging harsh against concrete.

Daud cocks an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

His voice is faint, a hiss in the wavering heat.

“...mom…”

_'Oh, hell.'_

Daud furrows his brow, at a loss for what to do. He contemplates his options. Tentatively stepping forward, he quietly intrudes upon the distance between them and freezes to a halt once he's closer. His arm jerks, stops, then stiffly drifts up. Daud rests his hand atop his head, patting it once.

He stifles a flinch when hands fly up and seize his forearm, gripping white-knuckled. He's tugged down, planted firmly into tousled hair.

A beat of silence. He pats again.

The shaking quiets a little.

Daud breathes out his tension and vigorously ruffles his hair.

* * *

He's not exactly the same after that. There's something missing in the bite of his blade, something gone in his eyes like a fire that burnt out.

* * *

There's both blood and booze seeping through the cobblestone streets; the air's thick with song, thicker with sin. People thrive along the pavement, yelping in pain, crying in ecstasy, their hands sliding down unfamiliar contours and cracking in fists against splintering bone.

Daud was invited to celebrate the Fugue Feast with the cast, their faces flush with alcohol and their lips sloppy with intoxication. He declined, preferring to spend the Fugue with his brat, slipping away from the drunken troupe to navigate up to the rooftops.

He spots him immediately, waiting against a sky streaked with red. Daud makes his way over, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. He didn't bring anything with him, not even the blunts, so he's not sure what they'll end up doing. Coming up to his side, he cruises to a stop, breathing in the oceanside wind.

For a while, they stand in silence.

A song drifts up from the glimmering streets below. Daud picks it up, absentmindedly humming the tune, fingers twitching as they ghost the steps of the dance. The Serkonans onboard the ship often thumped on the deck along to this one—mostly when they've had a drink or two.

Daud notices when the other cuts in front of him and takes his hands, fitting their palms together. “What?”

He's jerked into a dance, stumbling awkwardly into the first movement. He doesn't remember the girl's part and his partner doesn't give, so he's left to shuffle along into a stilted reverse of the lead. Daud grimaces, feet stomping inches away from his.

A chuckle. Daud blinks, lurching to a stop. There's a gentle smile on his lips, a weariness reflected in his eyes. Daud pauses, then snorts, allowing himself a little smile of his own.

They move again, and this time, Daud takes the lead. They dance across the rooftop, skin sliding, feet sweeping, the glow of the city below and the purple of dusk falling behind.

* * *

Later that night, Daud's ripped from the streets by an actor from the troupe. He's drugged and whisked away from the lights of Karnaca, vision bleary and thoughts even more so.

Twenty-seven years pass before he meets his brat again.

* * *

He's wheezing, hand resting over his stomach, lacerations in his chest and over his arms. There was something familiar in the way Corvo fought—it was a hint of his own sword, caught in the flick of a wrist, in the lock of their blades. Still, he's usually not the type to dwell. Daud sits up and props himself against the dilapidated wall behind him, exhaling.

He's sure it won't work, but it's worth a try.

“I have one more surprise for you.

“I ask for my life.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> corvo notices when he leaves. he didn't even know his name. he joins a gang to pay the rent for his now empty house and that's where he hones his skills for the blade verbena.
> 
> seeing daud years later, he knows it's _him._


End file.
